Through Rose-Colored Glasses - A Day in the Life of Vinyl Scratch
by Evergreena
Summary: She loves the tunes... but can she handle the publicity? Vinyl Scratch just wants to be left alone with her music, but when a friend is in need, she can always lend a hoof. Besides, she needs somepony to whom she can deflect all this unwanted attention! A Talespin Tale


Through Rose-Colored Glasses - A day in the life of Vinyl Scratch

PRELUDE

I know what you're thinking. There goes DJ Pon-3, the cool unicorn everypony in the music world is talking about. The flamin' hot filly with a blue mane and nice shades. Everypony wants me to do their weddings, their parties, their clubs… They all think I'm some kind of perfect music goddess.

Well, I'm not. I don't do this for glory. I just love the beats and the tunes, that's all. I don't care about the money or the fame. In fact, I'd rather nopony knew me at all. Take yesterday, for instance.

I was on my way home after my shift at the record store, ready for an acoustic jam session with Octavia and the rest of her gang. I put on my usual glasses 'cause of the sun, of course, but I then thought I'd give 'Tavia a fright by getting my mane curled at the salon. (It would be worth the fussy trouble of curling it all, just to see her jaw drop to the floor.) Mission accomplished, I set out again, feeling slightly self-conscious about the weird bouncy curls around my face. Totally ruined my persona, of course. But there's a lot about Vinyl Scratch, the secretive alter-ego of my DJ moniker, that most ponies just don't know.

There I was, trotting along down Main Street and minding my own stinkin' business. But then a herd of youngsters come bounding out of Sugarcube Corner and slam right into me. Wham! Down I go to the hard-rock pavement. My mane flipped out and lost all its new curls. So much for attempting a nice 'do. Oh well, it wasn't my style anyway.

But then all these silly little foals start pestering me for my hoofprint. Seriously? I live here! I shouldn't have to deal with this kind of fan-abuse! But when I tried to sneak away, a tiny filly stuck out her lower lip and said, "Octavia always gives us her autograph! You might have better music, but if you keep this up, we'll stop buying your stuff."

Dang. She brought the big guns, didn't she? But how could she have known the sort of rivalry I have with that fiddling wonder of a pony? Though Octavia would die if she heard these kids say that my stuff is better. Ha! She's a famed classical artist, while I'm… what, a DJ turned indy electronica artist? I've only released one album so far, mostly remixes. I have no right to be famous. But what the hay, I might as well mollify these little annoyances so that they leave me alone.

So I bent down and gave them each a spotchy hoofprint in their autograph books. I don't go for those prissy signatures that Octavia does. How does she even do it without magic? I shoved back the last inky page, and got out of there quicker than a thirty-second note on fast-forward.

But that wasn't the end of it. As I trotted to the beats in my head, I noticed something odd. Some stupid photographer was following me. He didn't think I noticed him, but of course I could see him through my shades (I'm not blind, after all!). He jumped from bush to bush, and peeked out now and then to snap a photo. I think he was muttering some dopey theme music, too. I kept my head down and picked up my pace, hoping to shake him. As I turned a corner, I casually glanced back and caught a glimpse of his badge: _Galloping Stone magazine._

I grinned. This sneaky photojournalist was in for a nasty surprise if he thought he could nab an unflattering photo of me in my home pasture. I scratched out a rough plan as I put on my headphones. I would need them for this. I picked my most hardcore playlist and cranked up the volume. The opening riff of _Renegade Drifter_ by _Pirate Orcs_ filled my head with its pounding bass notes. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about…

I kept my back to the wall, waiting for the stallion to round the corner as the lyrics sailed through my whole body.

 _I can't listen to your homely beat_

 _As long as I'm so incomplete_

 _I can't trot through your stone-cold heart_

 _When all you want to do is tear me apart._

 _I only need_

 _Those oceanside caves_

 _Everything else I just ignore_

 _As vibrant soundwaves_

 _Crash on the shore._

There! As soon as my stalker stepped into view, I bucked and neatly knocked his camera right off its strap around his neck. It skittered away on the sidewalk, and he fell from the sheer surprise. I spun around to the music in my ears, did a perfect cartwheel, and landed so that I was standing right over him triumphantly. Yep, that was pretty epic.

He carefully got to his feet. His mouth moved, but I didn't hear anything. Oops. I took off my headphones as he said, "-Vinyl Scratch, I presume. I've heard the horror stories."

Stories? What was he talking about? I frowned at him, trying not to show too much interest in this jerk.

"Oh, I was warned against doing this story," he said in a glum voice. He shook himself, and a cloud of dust floated off his drab, puke-colored coat and brown mane and tail. He had a mic for a cutie mark. "The other photographers at the 'zine refused to do it. They told me that you don't like having your photo taken. One of them swears that you bit him when he got too close to your set at a gig."

I grinned, showing him my teeth. I was satisfied to note that he flinched. I remembered that one. A steel-gray pegasus. He snuck up on me while I was playing _Eight Days Late_ for the Oldies Rock Club in Canterlot. I bit his left wing during the second bridge. He deserved it, too. My equipment is sacred ground. He learned that the hard way.

But then this punk said something that really put me on the off-beats. "Has anypony ever told you that you're a natural performer? You really ought to take the stage by storm. They'll love you."

I blinked in surprise, though he probably couldn't tell through my shades. Why would he say that? I'm a DJ, not a main stage performer. I faked a yawn, even though inwardly my mind was spinning in confusion.

"I know, I know, you're already done listening" he said. He sounded almost dejected. "Oh well, it was worth a try." He picked up his camera, opened it up, and nudged the now-ruined film over to me. "There you go. No photos, no article."

A twinge of something -guilt perhaps?- pinched my stomach. I didn't want to be rude to him. I just valued my privacy.

He must have seen something of my thoughts in my face, because he shrugged and said, "You'll probably tell me you're an _artist_ , and that you don't do this for fame. But you certainly don't act like it."

I clomped right up to him so that we were face to face, and I lifted my glasses off my eyes so that I could get a really good look at the guy.

"The name is Trottsworthy," he said, seemingly unperturbed by my proximity to his face. "Whineas Trottsworthy. I'm the head editor for _Galloping Stone._ "

The _head_ editor? Why'd this Mr. Trottsworthy come trotting all the way out to Ponyville?

"I was hoping to get my cover story, but now I see that you're a rude, snooty artist who doesn't want anything to do with us lowly ordinary ponies. Good day, Miss Scratch." Trottsworthy started to head off in the opposite direction, but he stopped and said over his shoulder. "I'll be staying at the Ponyville Hotel tonight if you change your mind. Room 14."

I watched him go. A strange mix of emotions were having a dance party in my gut. Whatever. I put my headphones back on, cranked up the music, and jived my way toward Octavia's house.

* * *

"You _what?_ "

I winced and tried to cover my ears. Octavia's screech of incredulity nearly knocked me off my feet. Made me wish I'd left my noise-cancelling headphones on.

"But… but Whineas _Trottsworthy?_ Why would you turn down an opportunity to talk to _him?"_ Her eyes glinted with shock and a hint of what had to be jealousy. "I would almost die to have an interview with him!"

I stuck out my tongue and made a face. I didn't want to be in his 'zine. The tunes themselves are my thing. Octavia wouldn't understand that, of course.

"Your precious 'tunes' are no good unless somepony _listens_ to them!" Octavia flipped her mane over her shoulder and glanced in the mirror. "You do need an audience, you know."

I turned away from her and picked up her cello bow, pretending to be nonchalant, but her words bugged me. _Sheesh, 'Tavia,_ I thought. _I've got my music, you've got yours. Isn't that enough?_

Octavia spun around so fast that I stumbled backwards a step. She grabbed my shoulders on either side. "Vinyl! You've got to stop ignoring what the music is _about!_ "

I stared blankly at her.

She flung one hoof up in the air and bowed to an imaginary audience. "Fame, accolades, the admiration of a crowd! The ability to give pleasure to ponies everywhere! The music is the vehicle of purest emotion. Audiences eat that stuff up, so we have a responsibility to give it to them."

We stared at each other for a long moment. Then I grinned and held up her cello bow.

It was time to jam.

* * *

After the session, I put away Octavia's instruments while she mingled with the rest of her little gang. I had never liked this part of our jam sessions, because the rest of her friends were all snooty classicalites, while I was the only electronica artist in the room. Jamming was fun, yeah, but the socializing…

Octavia's doorbell rang, and she ran to answer it. She thrived on attention. Maybe she was right about always needing an audience. But I also couldn't help but wonder if it was a universal truth, or just her own point of view.

I nestled her cello in its velvet-lined case. I felt rather pooped from the events of the day, but I knew that Octavia would want me to stay for desserts and tea-

"No! You must be mistaken!" Octavia's horrified wail filled the entire room, and we all spun around to see what the matter could be. She stood in the doorway, facing the mailpony. She held a letter out to us. "It's horrible!"

"My sincerest apologies," said the mailpony in a miserable tone. "I always hate being the bearer of bad news."

As her friends crowded around her, Octavia seemed not to notice any of them. Typical. "I'm ruined," she whispered. Then she pushed past us and fled to her room, the letter fluttering in her wake. I put my hoof on it, stopping it from flying away.

What was all this drama about? I bent closer to read the fine script:

Miss Octavia,

I regret to inform you that your upcoming solo performances have been cancelled due to lack of ticket sales. This terminates our contract. We may be open to working with you in the future, but currently that is not an option, as we have seen a decline in interest for classical repertoire…

I didn't have to read any more. I knew what I had to do.

* * *

 _Boom boom, boom-boom!_ I kicked the door to room 14 in a rhythmic pattern. I'd never spent much time in the Ponyville Hotel before, but it seemed to me that the occupants of the entire hall would have heard all this ruckus. Huh. Why didn't he answer?

Maybe I'd frightened him away for good? I grinned at that thought. I could be intimidating when I wanted to. Unfortunately, now would be a better time to be disarming and winsome. I pulled back my front hoof to give the door another kick in my annoyance.

Just before my hoof connected with the door, however, it opened, and there stood Mr. Trottsworthy. But the momentum in my swinging leg was too much, and my hoof connected with his shin instead. Oops.

Trottsworthy yelped in pain, then regained his upbeat reporter's demeanor. "Miss Scratch! I can't believe it! You came ba-"

I stuck my hoof on his mouth to stop his inevitable cadenza of words. With my other hoof I plastered Octavia's rejection letter over his eyes.

He took the paper, glanced at it briefly, and then looked up at me, confused. "I don't understand. This is not about you at all, is it?"

I shook my head firmly.

Trottsworthy furrowed his brow and looked again at the paper. "This letter is addressed to a Miss Octavia. That wouldn't be Octavia Melody, formerly the first chair cellist in the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra?"

I nodded.

"Oh, what a pity she's been let down like this! She has extraordinary talent, I know! But what does this have to do with you? Or me, for that matter?"

I pointed at the paper.

He considered. Then a sly look stole over his face. "I see… Tell you what, if you promise me an exclusive interview with DJ Pon-3, perhaps then I could offer your friend one as well."

I lifted my glasses away from my eyes once more and squinted at him, hard. He seemed to be the type who was easily intimidated, but I thought it couldn't hurt to play it up a bit. I glared like I'd never glared before, and that was saying something.

Trottsworthy withered. "Fine, all right! I make no promises, but I shall see what I can do." He turned away, muttering unintelligible complaints.

Satisfied, I let my shades fall back into place. Soon all would be right with the world.

* * *

Then this morning, I watched silently as Octavia raced around the house, dashing from this mirror to that one, trying out different hats and scarves and other fashionable accoutrements. She was not satisfied with any of them. I thought the fuss was a bit ridiculous.

"I don't know, purple might be a bit much, don't you think? Or would it be nice to have a spot of color since my coat is so gray? What about this? Does this work?"

I rolled my eyes under my glasses.

She dove into the closet and threw the purple hat over her shoulder, adding it to the growing rejection pile. "I can't believe I'm going to get an interview with Whineas Trottsworthy!" her voice practically squeaked with excitement. "No, play it cool, Octavia," she told herself. "You must be dignified!"

I glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes before she was supposed to meet the photojournalist at the gazebo for her big photo shoot.

Octavia finally emerged from the closet with her dress collar and pink bow tie that matched her cutie mark. She smiled sheepishly at me. "I know, I know! After all that, I decided to just wear the same thing I always perform in."

I shrugged. It worked for her.

As Octavia darted into the bathroom to style her mane, I gathered up her instrument case. I opened the front door and held it with my foot while I held the cello case out.

A moment later Octavia zoomed out of the bathroom and galloped past me and out the door, grabbing the cello on the way and calling, "Thanksamilliondarling!" over her shoulder. And she was gone.

I put on my headphones and followed at a slow trot, feeling like I was waltzing on cotton candy clouds.

* * *

CODA

So there you have it. I just want to make everypony's day a little brighter, a little cooler, and way more musical. If that means helping out a fellow musician in need, I'm there.

Octavia may thrive on the attention of an audience, and that's fine, but that life is not for me. I'd rather be at the soundboard, turning up the volume as I watch the party from behind my rose-colored glasses.

But… there is one more note in this particular sequence of measures.

I hate to say it, but Whineas Trottsworthy did end up getting what he wanted. While Octavia was finishing up her glamorous photoshoot, she happened to notice me watching from a distance. She dropped everything and galloped over, and before I knew what was happening, she had dragged me back with her so she could have her picture taken with me. I'm certain Trottsworthy has big plans for that picture. When he mumbled something about a cover image, I gave him a good glare, and he quickly assured me that it would only be buried in the pages of the article instead.

In any case, perhaps a tiny bit of exposure won't hurt me, as long as I'm with my best friend in all of Equestria.


End file.
